


as the days grow cold

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [8]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Autumn, Baking, Blow Jobs, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dogs, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Shopping, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 17:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Eliot has always loved fall. The aesthetics alone were enough to live for; finally cool enough for scarves and light jackets to be reasonable, cool enough that he wasn’t constantly sweating through his layers. Maybe it makes him a basic bitch, but he loves a Pumpkin Spice Latte, okay?Quentin and Eliot enjoy the fall.





	as the days grow cold

**Author's Note:**

> Fall fluff! No bigger concept here, I’m just stuck on another project and wanted to write something soft and good. Enjoy, and happy fall!
> 
> Thanks to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) who remains my patient and stalwart beta reader and cheerleader.

Eliot has always loved fall. 

The aesthetics alone were enough to live for; finally cool enough for scarves and light jackets to be reasonable, cool enough that he wasn’t constantly sweating through his layers. Maybe it makes him a basic bitch, but he loves a Pumpkin Spice Latte, okay? And the _food_\- he had plans to make just about every single kind of seasonal pie known to mankind. He was going to cook until the other tenants of the penthouse begged him to stop. Also the fact that October contained his birthday and therefore the entire month was about him obviously helps.

The new delight of this particular fall, post possession and well into Life After Monster, is well– Quentin. 

Not that Quentin hasn’t been a year-long delight so far, minor bickering about discarded shoes left in the middle of the bedroom or the position of the showerhead notwithstanding. No, apparently Quentin also likes fall. Or maybe he's just really good at latching onto the things that make him happy and enjoying them without shame, but so far he’s met every ounce of Eliot’s seasonal excitement with unabashed enthusiasm. Bad days happen, for both of them, but well– Take joy where you can. 

Which leads to Quentin joining Eliot in the kitchen, carefully relearning the process of making bread from fuzzy half-memories and Claire Saffitz. The sight of Quentin, hair falling into his face, kneading at a ball of dough, is so deeply familiar and intrinsically tied up with this idea of _home_ that lives in the back of Eliot's brain that it actually steals his breath a little. It leaves him standing with his hands covered in butter and flour, a half-made pie crust on the counter in front of him as he watches Quentin stretch and fold the rosemary dough methodically. 

“Your butter is going to go soft,” Quentin points out, not looking up from his rhythmic kneading, and of course he’s right. As tempting as it may be to abandon the pie and crowd up behind Quentin, loop his arms around Q’s waist and breathe in the smell of his hair and feel the motion of his shoulders as he works the dough... Well, Eliot’s already peeled the apples. It would be a waste, and not one that he can excuse because he’s feeling cuddle horny.

It’s okay, though. He gets his later, once the pie is in the oven and Quentin’s bread is rising. They curl up together on the couch, Quentin wrapped in his soft gray microfleece with his head on Eliot’s chest, legs tangled together. The silly little dog has taken up residence across both their laps, but she was kind enough not to step on his balls getting there this time, so he’ll let it go. Quentin had turned on kid’s Halloween movie that Eliot vaguely remembers from being a teenager, and it’s all so-

It’s so fucking domestic, he feels like he should hate it, but honestly he’s so happy he could cry. _God, please, a whole life time of this._

“I hesitate to say this,” Quentin mumbles from somewhere in the region of Eliot’s left pec, “But I think I probably need to go buy some new clothes. Everything I have here is very summer-y, like, button ups and t-shirts and a couple hoodies. I don’t know what happened to the shit I had left at Brakebills, but it’s probably long gone by now. So do you want to like- do that? With me?

“That might,” Eliot starts dramatically, pausing for effect, “Be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me. Is this my birthday present?”

Quentin groans, turning to rub his face into Eliot’s chest. “See, I already regret it.”

“Awww, come on. I’ll be good, I promise. Won’t even try to blow you in the dressing room.”

Quentin snorts out a laugh, a rough brash sound that makes fondness expand in Eliot’s chest. “Just don’t try to dress me like you, okay?”

“Sweetheart,” Eliot says softly, all teasing gone. Quentin tips his face up, pretty brown eyes wide, and Eliot has to touch him. Bring the hand that’s not looped around his back up to ghost over his cheek, tuck back his hair. “Don’t you think I know you better than that?”

Q smiles, pushing up until their kissing, soft and sticking, short kiss after kiss after kiss with a dog in their laps while a teenage girl on the TV talks to a man with a pumpkin for a head. Then the timer for the oven goes of and scares the shit out of Dessy, sends her startling to the floor with a thump and a yelp. 

“Oh no, baby girl!” Quentin cries, and Eliot has to give up on any more of his very nice kisses as Quentin extricates himself from the blanket to check on the dog. With a sigh, Eliot pauses the movie and goes to check on the pie.

The loaf-making process is fairly simple, but Eliot stays in the kitchen with Quentin to watch him punch down and shape the dough, coax it into a stout little log. He braces his elbows on the counter, which has the duel benefit of stretching out his spine and allowing him to look up at Quentin from a lower angle, always a delightful change of pace. 

“I really don’t know why this is so fascinating to you,” Quentin mutters under his breath, a little flush sitting on the top of his cheeks as he dusts the bread loaf gently with flour and covers it with a towel. 

“Don’t you?” Eliot replies, soft and more tender than he’d usually let himself be around anyone else. But they’re alone for the moment, Julia off with New-Penny doing something which apparently called for someone indestructible. Following that train of thought, he wonders idly aloud “How long do you think before we start to worry that Julia’s not as indestructible as she thinks she is?”

“She texted me 10 minutes ago that she’ll be home for dinner,” Quentin replies patiently. He sets the loaf to rest again, and then leans over to kiss Eliot softly, presumably in response to the memory they’re sharing, the stand-in ‘I love you’ that was any reference to that life together.

Eliot has grand designs on dinner, a squash and kale soup which should pair nicely with the rosemary bread. Quentin makes a face at the kale, because he’s an actual child and remains skeptical of all foods green in color. 

“Trust me,” Eliot sing-songs, dumping the kale into boiling water to blanch out the bitterness, and then fishing it back out again.

“You drink that shit in smoothies, I don’t trust you even a little.”

“Yes, well, vitamins are apparently important when your body’s literally falling apart at the seams,” Eliot say, irreverent, but at least it gets Quentin to stop complaining.

He does eat a bowl and a half of it later, though, sopping up rich broth with thick slices of homemade bread while Julia regales them with her adventure at a volcano near the Philippines. And, well, Eliot’s always heard that going back for more is the best compliment a chef can receive. 

__

True to his word, Eliot is on his best behavior while out shopping.

Julia pouts that morning, when Quentin kindly but firmly tells her no, she can’t come along too. “What, are you saying Eliot has better taste than me?” Julia teases, leaning against the counter in the kitchen while the coffee pot burbles next to her. She seems like she’s mostly not offended, but there’s a little bit of an edge to it. From what Eliot’s been able to gather, convincing Quentin that he needs to update his wardrobe has mostly been her job for the last 10 years. He can’t really blame her for feeling a little hurt.

“I’m saying I trust Eliot to listen to me when I say that I know what I want more than you,” Quentin grumbles back like that’s not-- lighting Eliot’s whole body up with pride from the inside out. Like working to build that trust hasn’t been the main focus of the last half a year of his life.

“Plus, someone’s gotta stay here with Lady Desdemona the Ever-Needing,” Eliot points out. Dessy, who is thoroughly asleep in her bed in the living room, says nothing in her own defense.

“She’s not exactly a baby anymore,” Julia says dryly. “She won’t pee on the floor if she’s alone for six hours.”

“Both of you be nice to my child,” Quentin cuts in, and they get distracted for the next handful of minutes ribbing him for treating the puppy like his own human child, like Eliot doesn’t find it stupidly endearing.

They do set out into the city without Julia though, and without leaving too many hurt feelings at home. Quentin treats the entire shopping venture like a trial which must be endured, rather than an adventure to be savored, which is very un-Quentin like of him, if you ask Eliot. Reframe this whole thing as a quest, and he thinks they could have a lot of fun. But judging by the weary look Quentin gives every single tie they pass by, he may trust Eliot to listen to a flat _no_, but they need to get some experience under their belts before this can be _fun_.

In the end, Eliot ends up with a few new ties for _himself_, as well as a couple of cardigans and a nice heavy pea-coat in a rich mahogany brown. Quentin had taken one look at him in a black coat and blanched white, so that went right back on the rack real fast. Eliot can work with brown, it’s just an excuse to get a little more selective with his trousers.

Quentin he steers towards anything long sleeved, dark, and soft: layers he can hide behind, fabrics with gentle textures that will improve a bad brain day rather than making it worse, muted colors that won’t draw attention. Eliot knows, has paid enough attention to the clothes Quentin wears to pick out these patterns. In the end, Q ends up with several sweaters in dark greens and maroons and browns and grays, a couple new pairs of well-fitted blue and black jeans, and few long-sleeved henleys. 

(“Trust me, they’re as comfortable as t-shirts but you’ll look more refined”

“I’ll look like _Penny_.”

“Don’t wear them unbuttoned down to your navel with your whole tits out and you won’t.”

“Why are you looking at Penny’s tits?”

“Because I’m a red blooded American boy and they’re _there,_ Quentin. Go try on the shirt.”)

The one thing Eliot really has to push for are a pair of soft gray trousers that do _amazing_ things for Quentin’s ass. He agrees to get them, and Eliot half expects them never to see the light of day again once they get back to the condo, but he appreciates being humored. 

"Done?" Eliot asks, the moment he gets the feeling Quentin has well and truly hit his limit on his ability to give a shit and be nice about it.

"Yeah," Quentin agrees, tugging on the sleeves of his own new jacket. It's a little big on him in the arms and hem, but fits perfectly in the shoulders and Eliot had promised he can fix the rest with a tailoring spell. "Sorry this just–"

"Isn't something you do for fun," Eliot fills in, looping his arm through Quentin's as they leave the shop, bags in hand. He feels kind of fantastically gay and reveals in it, being visibly and unashamedly queer in New York City in the fall, beautiful boy on his arm who also happens to be the love of his whole damn life. "It's fine, I get it. Want to go to a bookstore, so you can subject me to the same exercise in patience and partnership?"

Quentin laughs, eyes crinkling up a bit in the corners, and Eliot is struck by the old familiar urge to kiss his dimples. Echoes of another life tell him that this particular urge isn't likely to ever go away. "Careful what you wish for," Q says, and he looks wistfully around like he can conjure a bookstore and the energy to enjoy it from thin air.

"Rain check?" Eliot offers, softly, and gets a look of such understanding and gratitude in return that it feels kind of undeserved. 

So what if they spend the rest of the day burrito'd on the couch with the puppy, watching both Addams Family movies and some of the TV show from the 60s. Quentin's wearing one of his new sweaters, and it feels delightful under Eliot's palms. The theory behind the soft clothing really had been Quentin's own preference as far as textures on his skin went, but it also makes him incredibly nice to touch. Eliot dedicates about 15 minutes of the second movie to just tracing his palms over every inch of Quentin's back, until they're tingling from repetitive sensation and Quentin has gone practically to liquid on top of him. 

Julia makes a run for chinese food that night, and they switch over from the Addams Family to an 80s slasher movie, complete with buckets and buckets of fake blood.

"What does it say about me that I actually enjoy these more now that I know what it actually looks like when a person bleeds out?" Quentin asks, tucked in between the two of them on the couch, head on Eliot's chest and Julia's head on his shoulder.

"That you can tell how fake it looks now," Julia season reasonable, at the same moment Eliot says "That your life has been fucking horrific."

It's a good day. If this is Eliot's birthday present, it's a pretty spectacular one.

__

The next couple days are mildly waylaid by a magical current anomaly causing mayhem all over the country. The penthouse residents end up bouncing around the country with Team Newly Not Facist Library trying to track down the source of the wild magic and mayhem, which ends up being a magical creature from some planet Eliot's never heard of who's somehow migrated to Earth. It sort of stretches their ability to Be Helpful With Shit to the max, both in terms of Eliot's stupid fucking useless meat-suit and the balance of Quentin's brain. Eliot can see it, just tipping on the edge of the 'if I have no quest, I have no purpose, and therefore don't deserve to be alive,' and slams on the brakes really hard. He's not above over-playing his own physical discomfort, if mother-henning him gives Quentin something to do and also means people leave them alone about being helpful in other ways. 

It takes about a week to find equilibrium again, and then suddenly it's mid-October and they've missed valuable seasonal celebration time. The first morning where Quentin sleeps through the night and wakes up of his own accord before 10am, Eliot feels confident enough to suggest, "Want to cash in on that rain-check to find a bookstore?"

Which means he spends a good solid two hours sitting in an old dusty arm chair in a second hand book store, breezily flipping through art books while marveling at how good Q looks in his new gray trousers. Eliot had honestly expected the pants to never see the light of day, but maybe this was Quentin's concession to him. Green sweater over a tshirt and those soft grey trousers and he looks so much like he had the day he stumbled across the lawn into Eliot’s life, it’s almost too much to handle

Quentin's ass would be nice to handle, Eliot muses, watching him browse. At least he has Quentin's thighs wrapped in tight gray fabric to entertain him. How anyone can possibly get this much enjoyment out of first and second printings, or talk about Beowulf with the man behind the counter for this long is a mystery to Eliot. Still, Quentin's about 30 times more animated than he's been at all the last couple days, so Eliot can tolerate a little boredom. Plus, being knowledgeable about art is a very integral part of the air of sophistication he cultivates, and this dusty chair is as good as anything else at taking pressure off his knee. 

"I can't believe you spent $200 on one book," Eliot teases, as they leave the store later, cane in one hand and Quentin's in the other. 

"I can't believe you spent $200 on a sweater," Quentin returns, proving that they are, in fact, still different people with different priorities. It's reassuring to know.

They end up wandering past a farmers market and craft fair, set up on a cordoned off stretch of road. Whatever expression spreads across Eliot's face makes Quentin snort, then he's tugging on Eliot's hand, pulling him into the crowd. 

"This is different than the harvest festivals in Fillory," Quentin intones under his breath, quiet enough not to be overheard in the excitable crowd.

"Fillory was an agrarian society, of course it's different," Eliot says dismissively, tugging Quentin over to an artisanal soap maker, to smell chunks of soap with aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg, orange and cloves, thyme and sage. He ends up buying some fresh pumpkin pasta and a block of handmade cheese, perfect for making cream sauce, as well as some mulling spices and a couple bottles of local hard cider. He's so distracted by the culinary offerings that he loses Quentin in the crowd for a moment, but he's easy to find, crouched down talking to a little girl about the butterfly painted on her face while her mother looks on humorously. 

"Stop befriending small children," Eliot teases, once the girl and her mother have wandered away. "It's creepy when you don't have your own as an excuse."

"Kids are just people," Quentin returns, swaying into Eliot's side. "They're just not fully baked yet."

"Weird analogy."

"Oh fuck off." Then something catches his eye and he grins at Eliot. "Know any pumpkin carving spells?"

Eliot does not, but they buy a couple pumpkins anyway. 

Later, once they’re home and the pumpkins have been deposited out on the porch to keep them away from the excitable puppy, Eliot backs Quentin into the dining room table. It’s delightful to watch heat bloom in Q’s eyes, as he goes from zero to _oh right, my body likes being close to yours_. “I like these pants,” Eliot murmurs, slide his hand down the outside of Quentin’s thigh.

“I– I noticed.” Q’s voice stutters a little, and Eliot grins at him, hooking his hand on the back of Q’s thigh and pulling, so he has no choice but to spread his legs, trapped between Eliot’s body and the table. A flush stains his cheeks at the sensation of being parted like this, held open for Eliot to settle in between his thighs. He really is so fucking cute, Eliot muses, nuzzling down until he can press his mouth to Quentin’s soft, eager mouth. Sweet as a fucking peach.

“Can I show you how much I like them?” Eliot murmurs, ghosting his hands up Q’s leg until he hits the tempting curve of Quentin’s ass. It feels as nice in his hand as he’d been imagining all day.

“Right here?” Quentin squeaks, but he’s not shying away. If anything, his hands grip tighter in Eliot’s vest. 

It’s tempting. Oh god is it tempting, the hot sparkling idea of spreading Quentin out like a feast on the dining room table, devouring him, swallowing him whole. The idea that there might be someone else home makes it even hotter, somehow. _God, let them see, let them see how gentle and sweet and _good_ he is for me–_

But. 

“I wish. But I don’t think my knee can handle that,” he admits, dropping his forehead onto Q’s, breath hot and damp in the space between them. “If I kneel down I might never get up again.”

Q’s gripping hands go softer on Eliot’s waist, petting his sides. “Okay,” he says, and it’s– it’s so tender it’s almost hard to hear, Eliot wants to shrink away from it, feeling raw in the face of Quentin’s patience. His understanding. “Luckily, we have a bed.”

“It’s a pretty good bed,” Eliot agrees, pressing forward again to kiss at the soft bow of Quentin’s mouth. Both hands come up to hold his face, because they’re– they’re going to move in a second, but first Eliot needs to tip Q’s head back and run his thumbs under the cut of Quetin’s jaw, stroke the thin skin until he moans.

“It’s really close,” Quentin breathes, palms flattening against the dip in Eliot’s spine, pulling him closer until Quentin has to sit fully on the table, legs spreading as wide as they’ll go in his tight trousers, so Eliot can fit up close. 

“Mmmhm,” Eliot agrees, and Quentin’s mouth opens under his and when Eliot fucks his tongue inside Quentin _moans,_ fingers tightening in Eliot’s vest and–

There’s a thunk from somewhere upstairs, someone moving around in their bedroom, but it’s enough to break the spell. Quentin draws away with a giggle, pressing his hot face into Eliot’s neck. “Come on,” he breathes against Eliot’s throat. “Bedroom.”

There’s a bit of a mad-dash across the living room, made all the more hilarious by the fact that they’re both half-hard and neither of them is wearing the kind of pants likely to help hide that kind of thing. Then there’s a solid door between them and the rest of the world and Eliot can get Quentin backed up against it, kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, feel him push up on his toes to meet Eliot’s mouth every time. 

“You’re so– fucking tall,” Quentin groans, one arm looped up around Eliot’s neck to pull against. 

Eliot grins, feeling hot in his skin, down to his toes. “You like it,” he purrs back, and Quentin groans, weight falling back against the door, letting Eliot cage him in. 

“You know I do, asshole,” Quentin grumbles, and Eliot laughs.

“It’s okay, baby boy,” Eliot promise, rubbing their noses together, soft and fond. “I’m gonna take care of you. I want to make you feel _so good_.”

It is, of course, a little more complicated. Sex is so _easy_ on the days whereEliot’s body works like it’s 28 years old. On those days they have the luxury of being able fuck any way they want, in any position. Today it’s not that easy. But their bed is big enough that if they get Q propped up against the headboard, Eliot can fit on his stomach between Quentin’s legs. Except actually getting there is somewhat of a pain, literally, his knee screaming like a rusty hinge as he tries to get situated in a way that will let him use his hands.

Something of his frustration must show on his face, because Quentin stops him before Eliot can even get his pants open, hands in Eliot’s hair. “Hey,” Quentin says gently, fingers scratching against Eliot’s scalp. “It’s okay, El.”

Eliot– makes himself stop. Breathe. Drop his cheek to rest against Quentin’s hip and let the frustration bleed out into Q’s fingers. “I just wanted to blow you on the table,” he says mournfully. What he’s mourning, he’s not entirely sure. The ability to have a wild and crazy sex life, maybe.

“I know, honey,” Quentin coos, and it’s lightly mocking in the way that actually makes Eliot feel better. It’s a relief, knowing that Quentin will accept Eliot’s melodrama with sass of his own.

Quentin’s flagged a little, by the time Eliot gets his cock out of the lovely gray trousers, but Eliot doesn’t let himself feel guilty about it. Wrapping Q’s cock in his hand, he revels in the feeling of it filling against his palm, the way it heats as blood flows to it. 

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes out, watching with a kind of fascination as Quentin’s cock fills up close. It makes his mouth water, god, he _wants_ this. Wants it so much, but doesn’t want to overwhelm Quentin with too much sensation too fast. 

“Are you talking to my dick?” Quentin asks, a little high pitched, and Eliot smiles, looking up the line of his body to his face. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up to his elbows, forearms on display, his cheeks blushing red, floppy hair getting in his eyes.

“I’m talking to all of you. You’re so pretty, baby, I can’t stand it,” Eliot promises, rubbing his thumb against the underside of Quentin’s cock in his hand. Q’s hips flex a little, though whether because of the praise or the touch Eliot couldn’t say, but it’s as good a prompt as any to get going. 

Pressing a kiss to the skin of Q’s groin, Eliot noses down, into the patch of hair at the base of Q’s cock. The smell, the musk of it, makes him feel hot all over, cleanly sharp and masculine. Another kiss, to the shaft this time, open mouthed and hot. It punches a sound out of Quentin and Eliot feels a swell of pride. He’s _good_ at sucking cock. Quentin, always so open with his reactions, never lets him forget it.

The feeling of it sliding across his tongue is familiar, and there’s so many things about this for Eliot to like but his absolute favorite thing about it is the way it makes Q stutter and gasp, open and vulnerable, his softest most sensitive parts in between Eliot’s teeth. It’s a heady, powerful thing. Quentin, who’s trying so hard to be good, hips pressed to the bed, one hand tucked on to Eliot’s shoulder, the other twisting hard into the blankets.

Taking a deep breath, Eliot pushes down, _down_ until he feels the head of Quentin’s cock against the back of his throat. Working up to it, really, but taking Quentin isn’t terribly hard, his cock a good solid mouthful, enough to make Eliot’s throat feel _full_ without straining his jaw beyond comfort. A couple passes and he’s warmed up enough to push all the way to the base, swallow around the head of Quentin’s cock. 

“_Fuck_,” Quentin swears, fingers digging in hard to Eliot’s shoulder, pulling roughly at the blanket. Eliot pulls off with a slurp, running his tongue from root to tip.

“So pretty,” Eliot murmurs, licking around the head of Quentin’s dick, making him whine softly. Bitter and sharpe with pre-come, Eliot swallows it all down, lapping his tongue into the slit.

“_El_,” Quentin whines, and he’s too polite to push Eliot’s head back down on his dick but Eliot can see him thinking about it. A cheshire cat grin, and Eliot gets back to it. 

That heady, powerful feeling only grows as Quentin loses what control he has on himself. Fingers slip into Eliot’s hair, tangling in the curls just a little, holding on while Eliot takes him to the root again and again, working the head of Q’s cock into his throat.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, _oh!_” Q gasps, surprised like he didn’t realize he was going to come, wasn’t ready for the crest of it inside himself. Eliot does the best he can not to gag on the bitter flood of it in his throat, protect Quentin’s lovely new pants from stains. He pulls off with a cough while Quentin melts into a boneless puddle on the bed, hands falling limp at his sides. He looks a little punch-drunk, and it makes something tender and fond expand in Eliot’s chest. 

He’s clumsy and pliant when Eliot pushes up to kiss him, mouth opening to Eliot’s eagerly, heedless of the bitter taste. Sharing it with him makes Eliot feel like he’s– fucking boiling in his skin, so fucking hot, god, every single fucking thing with or about Quentin turns him on. Years of being told he was a deviant for wanting this, and maybe he is, because he wants everything, he wants absolutely everything, like a hunger that can never be satiated. It’s really hard to feel like that’s a bad thing, when Quentin’s hands sliding around his ribs make him feel whole, shattered pieces mending under his touch. When Quentin’s mouth under his feels absolutely fucking holy.

“I love you,” he breathes into to Quentin’s parted lips, and gets a soft helpless sound in response, overwhelmed and breathless. Laughing a little, Eliot kisses the side of his cheek and then rolls over, sprawling onto his back at Quentin’s side, so he can work his trousers open, get his own erection free. He’s so hard already, balls tight and full, and he’d be fine just like this, honestly, his own hand and the smell of Quentin next to him, warm against his side. Except Quentin makes a little displeased sound as the bed rocks a little with the motion of Eliot’s hand, head rolling towards him.

“Stop that,” Quentin complains, batting Eliot’s hand away from his own cock. “Mine.”

“Yes, you sound fully coherent and up to returning the favor right now,” Eliot teases, and it’s basically a dare. Makes Quentin squint at him, and then leverage himself up and crawl until he’s laying across the bed, face level with Eliot’s hard cock. 

It’s a weird angle, nearly 90 degrees, which means he can’t exactly take Eliot’s cock very deeply. But it’s sloppy and wet and eager and that’s pretty much exactly what Eliot likes best, the hungry way Quentin sucks dick like he can’t stop, like if you take it away from him, he might actually cry.

“Feels so good, baby, Eliot murmurs, eyes falling shut as he slides his fingers into Quentin’s hair. Weird angle or no, he can still tug and pull and guide, draw happy, hungry sounds out of his sweet boy, working him over just right. He’s so worked up already, horny from hours of appreciating Quentin’s cute little ass and worked up from giving pleasure, from Quentin’s needy fucking sounds.

Q pulls back to work the head of Eliot’s dick with his tongue, hand moving easily on the shaft with his own spit, and it’s such sparkly, bright, white-hot pleasure that Eliot barely has time to breathe out a warning before he’s coming, balls drawing up tight, pulsing hot and hard into Quentin’s mouth. 

“_F-fuck_,” he stutters out, tingling all over as Quentin pulls away, twisting to grab a tissue to spit into. Eliot tugs him back after, tugs him into a hungry kiss, chasing the taste on his tongue.

“You’re weird,” Quentin says fondly, as Eliot settles back, satisfied, but there’s absolutely no heat to it at all. 

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, settling back into the bed. What he is, is sweaty. Fuck that was a lot of work to do, wearing three layers. With clumsy fingers, Eliot unknots his tie, unbuttoning a couple buttons on his shirt. Quentin, who is still wearing a sweater but with his dick hanging softly out of his pants, settles his chin on Eliot’s chest. “We should get undressed next time.”

“That’s what you get for trying to fuck me in semi-publicly,” Quentin retorts, fingers coming up to slip into the open front of Eliot’s shirt, sliding through his chest hair. 

“Hnng,” is about all Eliot has to offer in response to that. 

__

The trees in Central Park are a vibrant kaleidoscope of fiery color by the third week of October, and they start finding excuses to head out into it almost every day. Honestly, the dog is enough of an excuse on her own, really. There’s a limited amount of time left until it’s just too fucking cold to want to spend hours outside letting her burn off all of her energy. Eliot hopes she hibernates, a little, or they’re going to have one restless, unhappy dog on their hands all winter. 

The end of the year is bearing down on them, Eliot’s birthday and Halloween and Thanksgiving and then the winter holidays. Quentin’s already starting to stress out about if he should try and see his mom, opening his phone to stare at her contact page for ten minutes at a time before closing it and burying his face in Eliot’s sweater. Eliot, for his part, is fighting the temptation to whisk Q off to Fillory, where all of the pressure of being a person on Earth at this time of year don’t exist.

Of course, Fillory is still mostly in civil war, so. Probably not a less stressful environment all told.

"I was Brian, last fall," Quentin says thoughtfully, as they walk through the park one afternoon. He's got a hot apple cider in one hand, too committed to black-coffee-one-sugar to go for the pumpkin flavored latte Eliot’s holding. Their other hands are tangled together over Dessy's leash, wound between them so they can still hold hands and hold their drinks, and also make sure their puppy fails in her quest to escape their captivity and explore the wide world of New York City all by her silly puppy self.

She's bouncing along in front of them, snapping animatedly at the leaves tumbling by her in the light breeze. Eliot watches her, laughing a little as she trips on her own feet. "Yeah?" he replies, more an acknowledgement that he's listening than anything else. Q rarely talks about being Brian. Oh, they talk about things with the Monster when they need too, when they trip over things it had done to Q or made him do. This hasn't really come up yet.

"Mhm," Quentin hums, swinging Eliot's hand a little between them. "He was starting his first semester as an adjunct professor at NYU. He'd just moved to New York. Didn't really know anyone, but– he was excited. I was excited. It felt like a new beginning." 

"Were you happy?" Eliot asks, curious. He's often wondered if this Quentin, his Quentin, would enjoy being a teacher. He seems kind of _laissez-faire_ towards the idea of finishing his degree, but. Eliot remembers, in the absent way he remembers things from the Mosaic, that Quentin had taught Teddy how to read and write and do as much math as a child in a pre-industrial society could be expected to absorb. They'd both taught him magic, but Quentin had been the more natural teacher, less likely to lose his patience.

"I– I think he was," Quentin says carefully, tugging Eliot off the path they've been lacksidasically following, over towards a bench. Eliot's not having any trouble walking today, stubborn knee finally behaving itself, but he'll welcome the rest anyway, the excuse to sit with Quentin close and enjoy the colors of fall in the park. "He still had my brain chemistry so he still– had bad days? But everything was more muted for him. The lows weren't as low and the highs weren't as high. He just didn't feel as intensely as I do."

Eliot tried to imagine a version of Quentin who didn't feel every single feeling all turned up to the max. It might be better, on the surface, evening him out in the way his SSRIs did so he wasn't swinging all over the place. But there’s a reason the dosage they've settled on is one that lets through more bad days than maybe they'd like, in exchange for removing the clouded foggy feeling that Quentin associate with being on medication. It means more work, more mindfulness, more tools in the tool box than just the meds, but it seemed more sustainable in the long run. Especially if Quentin wasn't left to weather his bad days alone. This experience of being Brain sounds a lot like Quentin's description of the meds he'd had in high school. 

"It might be the spell," Eliot volunteers, because god knows he's hardly an expert on memory magic, but that seems reasonable.

"Probably," Quentin agrees, nestling in a little closer to Eliot's side. Eliot slips his arm around Quentin's shoulder, warmth deadened by their two layers of jackets, but still Q shaped, familiar and good. "He was... very agreeable. It just wasn't really in him to put up a fight. Which, I am many things, but acquiescent is not one of them."

Eliot snorts, turning his face in to brush his nose against Quentin's temple. "No, I wouldn't use that word to describe you."

"The Monster took advantage of it," Quentin says quietly, and then sighs, sagging into Eliot's side. They both watch the puppy explore out to the edge of her leash, sniffing at pine cones and leaves and anything else she can find. Eventually, Q gets back to answering Eliot's initial question. "I think Brian was happy, in his own way. But it doesn't feel like me. It's not– the same as the memories from the mosaic? Those still feel like my memories, they still feel like they happened to me. It's like memories from being a kid, which are foggy until you have some reason to remember them? Brian's memories are like– A dream, or a story I told myself. He doesn't feel like a part of me."

"He wasn't you," Eliot says reasonably, sipping his pumpkin latte speculatively. He doesn't really remember much about the Monster's time with his body, but the flashes he gets are– horrible, and distant, like watching cellphone footage of a terrible tragedy. He doesn't have any feelings or thoughts tied to the sense memories, just a play-back reel of something using his body to torture and maim and murder. There's probably a reason he can't remember much of it. It's probably not something human brains are built to process. 

"I'm happy right now," Quentin says, voice soft and gentle, just for Eliot. "Kind of happier than I ever thought I could be."

Something tight constricts in Eliot's chest. "Me too."

"I always thought being in a good place in my life would mean that the bad shit would just _go away_," Quentin admits with a laugh. "But I think it's just. Knowing that you'll be able to push through it. Or knowing if you can't push through it today, you can try again tomorrow. And the next day. And being able to be happy when you can, and just–"

"Live in it," Eliot finishes softly, watching the puppy trot back over to them with a leaf in her mouth. "Realize that just because something might be bad again doesn't mean you can't enjoy the good things while they’re here."

"Doctor Who tried to tell me this years ago," Quentin says with a laugh, helping Dessy hop up onto the bench next to him, lay her head down on his knee, leaf still held proudly in her mouth. Quentin’s fingers scritch into her fur, and she huffs out a sigh.

“I’m not sure what Doctor Who has to do with this,” Eliot admits, knowing, _knowing_ this means he’s going to be bullied into watching something when they get home. Quentin’s face lights up, and Eliot starts laughing, pushing in to kiss him before he can get the words out. “Yes, you can show me.”

Q’s face goes soft, open and sweet. “I love you,” he says instead, tipping his head to rest on Eliot’s shoulder.

“You too, Baby Q.” 

Maybe the next couple months would be weird, a little unmoored and aimless, floating through a muggle world they don’t quite belong to anymore. Maybe they’d be wonderful, with their little family of misfits, him and Quentin and Julia, Team Newly Not Facist Library, the Joint High Kings of Fillory. Maybe it would be incandescently bright, full of bread and pie and turkey, potato latkes and applesauce, mulled wine and hot chocolate. Maybe it could be the best fucking months of their lives.

Eliot buries his nose in Quentin’s hair, and lets himself have hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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